


Nice

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Banter, F/M, Gentle Sex, Post-Scratch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m just Dave, I’m just a guy who makes stupid movies. I don’t wanna have cosmic significance. I didn’t even want to come to your stupid party.” He groaned and flopped onto his back.</p><p>Rose drained her glass, kicked off her shoes, and flopped back next to him. “I know the feeling.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vibishan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibishan/gifts).



> For maximum reading pleasure, please use the following Post-Scratch Rose and Dave headcanons: [Rose](http://candicekellyx3.tumblr.com/post/120297722646/we-dont-care-that-our-thighs-touch-it-just), [Dave](http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m8tkw3a73P1rcj7d9o3_500.jpg). This has been your daily "hot-a-what" service announcement.

All things considered, the party had been a roaring success. Rose raised her champagne flute to her lips and surveyed the empty dance floor of her penthouse loft, taking in the empty wine glasses and discarded cocktail napkins, the deflated balloons and stray shoes; the detritus of Tinsel Town’s best-and-brightest. The gleaming wood floor was scuffed and dinged, long stiletto-shaped gouges in the wax, and her fine linen tablecloths were likely stained beyond repair. Minimal damage, all told. No one partied quite as hard as the rich and famous, and it didn't look like she'd have to patch any holes in the drywall. Years ago, someone had flushed their wig. The miscellaneous debris was nothing in comparison.

She sighed. Fifteen years, she’d been dreaming about this apartment, about Los Angeles; a dance floor thronging with America’s social elite. The city pulled her like a magnet, there was something she was yet meant to do, someone she was supposed to meet. Destiny weighed heavily on her, a sword suspended over her skull. She wished that the dreams had warned her that the glitterati were hard on the plumbing.

Rose didn’t care for parties; she resented having to have them. She never participated in the dancing, never made the rounds and mingled with Hollywood’s elite. Her bedroom was lofted, open to the lower floor, accessible by a salvaged industrial ladder. While her guests danced and laughed and destroyed her furniture, Rose stood alone and above them all on her balcony, dressed in black. Years ago, some intrepid socialites had climbed the ladder to greet her and thank her for her hospitality (that was why she’d installed it, the image of People Magazine’s ‘Most Beautiful’ climbing ladders in linen suits and evening gowns kept her warm at night), but interest had waned over the years. The tabloids branded her a female Howard Hughes, but enigmas had a short shelf life. A few months of breathless speculation, and she'd been dethroned by a presidential affair and two celebrity overdoses.

She took another sip of champagne and grimaced. There was something about liquor (she saw endless bottles and well-stocked cabinets in her dreams) but she’d never cared for the taste.

Fifteen feet below, feet clanged on the steel ladder. She hesitated, groping for the foot-long needles concealed beneath her dress. There were always a few stragglers, people too drunk or stoned to find their way home, but none of them had ever climbed into her loft before. They tended to pass out in bathrooms or underneath tables.

A head popped up at the edge of the loft. Masculine, fair-hair, dark skin, eyes hidden behind mirrored shades.

“Yo Gatsby,” he drawled. “There’s a stiff in your pool and Daisy still hasn’t shown up.”

Rose frowned. “Gastby _was_ the stiff.”

“Yeah, so we’re real fucking off-script. It’s a goddamn travesty. Fitzgerald’s rolling in his grave. Hook him up to a generator and his nerd anguish could power the entire eastern seaboard.” He threw himself up, over the last few rungs and into the loft, straightened, and brushed the dust off his suit. He stuck his hand out. “Dave Strider.”

She shook it, nonplussed. His hand was cool and dry, palms and fingertips knotted with callouses. At his touch, Skaia drew close around her, rising up around her like hands at her throat. Sudden heat licked at her forearms, she tasted something metallic at the back of her throat, caught the scent of distant fires on a non-existent breeze. There was a ringing sound like a hammer on an anvil, and something heavy slid into place within her mind.

The impossible world— _heat and clockwork; a forge; a pendulum; unknowable things twisting and churning in a vast cosmic furnace_ —flared and faded. She blinked, and the real world reasserted itself around her; her penthouse swam into focus. Dark wood and stark white marble, the scent of incense and vanilla, the dance floor littered with expensive garbage.

“Rose Lalonde,” she said, straining to keep her tone even. “You make those awful movies.”

“And you write those awful books.” His expression was stoic; but his voice twisted ironically. There was a grin implicit in his words, something playful behind his reflective shades and unsmiling mouth.

Rose allowed herself a grin. “Touché, Mr. Strider. I would like to retract my earlier statement and offer an official apology. Your films are art; you are an artist. There is something deliciously Sisyphean about Sweet Bro’s eternal struggle with those stairs.”

“Your books are still fucking awful,” he said. “I couldn’t get through the first chapter. It’s like reading drunken chatlogs between a thesaurus and Satan’s speak-and-spell.”

“Flatterer.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, utterly ruining the lines of his tailored jacket. “I’ve got a way with words. Most ladies would’ve already thrown their panties at me.”

“Believe me, I’m finding the temptation difficult to resist.”

“You must be part nun,” he said. “Only explanation.”

“One part nun, two parts Boo Radley,” she agreed, moving to refill her champagne glass. “It’s a potent combination. I am, alas, immune to even the wordiest attempts at seduction.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who said I was seducing you?”

“You’re in my bedroom and I’m two-thirds tipsy. If you’re not here to ravish me, you’re a particularly vivid hallucination, and I don’t think a glass and a half of bubbly is enough to send me into delirium.” She took another sip. “Or sleep with you, come to think of it.”

“Darn,” he said. “Can I get some of that wine? I need something to take the edge off my enormous disappointment boner.”

Her eyes flicked to his crotch to confirm that no, he was not erect. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she was grateful that her dark complexion hid her blush. “Of course,” she said levelly. “Would you kindly hold my glass?”

“When you put it like that,” he said, “I really can’t refuse.”

Rose busied herself with the champagne bottle. “I’m suddenly very glad that I don’t have any golf clubs on hand.”

“You should always be glad you don’t have golf clubs,” he said, accepting a champagne flute. “Golf sucks.”

“I’ve never actually been golfing,” she said. “Although I’m quite fond of knee socks and argyle.” She gestured towards the bed. “Please, sit down. I’m afraid I haven’t any chairs up here, so I’ll simply have to trust you to keep your raw animal magnetism under wraps.”

“Miss Lalonde, you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?”

“A tiresome reference, and not the first time I’ve heard it made,” she said. “And really, you mustn’t flatter yourself so.” She sat down next to him, their knees touching.

He shrugged. “ _I_ thought it was funny.” He raised his glass to his lips, then grimaced. “I’m sorry, I thought this was champagne. I didn’t know you could buy pruno in bottles.”

“It’s the cheapest garbage money can buy.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers. He forced down another mouthful and shuddered at the taste. “Christ, that’s awful. How can you drink this stuff?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I don’t really drink, I just keep the stuff around.”

“Clearly not to impress your guests,” he said, setting the champagne flute on the floor. “Why?”

Rose raised the glass to her lips to buy herself a moment to think. Skaia loomed large, and she pushed it away, closing her mind against the visions crowding around her. “Call it a hunch,” she said.

“A hunch?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“All my life,” she said carefully, “I’ve had particularly strong insights and instincts. I’ve often felt as though I had some sort of…presence guiding my actions. Destiny, fate, whatever. There’s something out there, some bigger force guiding my hand, directing me towards certain outcomes.” She spoke in a cool, factual tone of voice, eyes locked on Dave’s to gauge his reaction. 

His face remained impassive. “Interesting.”

“Isn’t it? You can call me crazy if you like, you wouldn’t be the first.”

“You’re too rich for crazy,” he said. “If anything, you’d be an eccentric.” Rose laughed, and his grin was quantum, gone as soon as it appeared on his face. “I mean, that’s weird, but that’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. Hell, I half expected you to be pissing in jars and ranting about the women in the wallpaper.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said lightly. “Underneath my mystique and piles of money, I’m just a lonely shut-in.”

“A lonely shut-in who sees the future and throws killer parties,” he amended.

“The visions are the reason for the killer parties, actually,” she said. “I dreamt about the parties and this apartment for years. There was someone I was supposed to meet.”

“Damn,” he said. “Here I thought I’d shaken free of predestination.”

“That’s the thing about predestination,” she said. “It keeps happening.”

He stared at her a moment. “Oh my god.”

She smiled vaguely and took a sip of wine. “Your movies have some grand cosmic significance, I hope you know that. Of _course_ I watched them.”

“That’s the worst thing you’ve said all night,” he said. “Please tell me you’re kidding. I’m just Dave, I’m just a guy who makes stupid movies. I don’t wanna have cosmic significance. I didn’t even want to come to your stupid party; my producer made me.” He groaned and flopped onto his back.

Rose drained her glass, kicked off her shoes, and flopped back next to him. “I know the feeling.”

“Destiny is stupid.”

“It is,” she agreed.

They laid next to one another for a moment, chests rising and falling in sync, staring up at the skylight and the stars wheeling past overhead. “Can I kiss you?” he said, suddenly uncertain.

She laughed, a short, unladylike bark of amusement. “I _called_ it! You _did_ come up here to seduce me!”

“Okay, first off: you have bullshit future vision, you’re not allowed to call things. It’s lame. Second, _you_ were the one who made it a sex thing. I mostly wanted to see if you had foot-long fingernails, but then you had to go and be a total babe. Unfair.”

“Life is seldom fair, Mr. Strider. That’s why I cheat.” She paused a moment. “And you may kiss me. If you want to.”

Next to her, Dave awkwardly propped himself up on one elbow. His face appeared in her field of vision, and very gently, he leaned in and kissed her as if to break a curse: gentle, close-mouthed, lips and no tongue or teeth. He pulled away slightly and sighed, his breath tickling her cheek. Rose reached up for him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him _properly_ , tongue sliding over teeth and into his mouth. Traces of the god-awful wine lingered on his lips, but underneath it, he was sweet and peppery. She closed her eyes and relaxed into the kiss. One of his hands landed on her jaw, cradling her face. _This is nice_ , she thought. _The kissing._

When they broke apart, he was breathing hard and chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck,” under his breath.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“No.” He reached up and removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes red as coals, tucked them carefully into his breast pocket. “It’s fine. I…I want this. I just didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect _you_.”

“Didn’t expect you, either,” she said. “But I’m glad you found me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”

He kissed her again, without his earlier hesitancy. There was an undemanding urgency to his touch, heady as brandy and twice as sweet. Kissing him was like slipping into a warm bath. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, eager to feel his body pressed up against hers. He ran a hand up her spine and she arched into him, mouth opened in an ‘o’ of delight.

He pulled away again. “So,” he said breathlessly. “Clothes off, then?”

“God,” she said, “I thought you’d never ask.” Her hands flew up to her necklace, and after a moment’s fumbling with the clasp, she had it off. She cast it aside, and moved to help him out of his coat, taking the opportunity to run her hands along his sculpted chest. She smiled at him, catlike. Dave flushed, a little embarrassed but obviously pleased, and loosened his tie.

“I’m 110% all-natural American stud muffin, but please refrain from throwing your panties,” he said, letting the tie slip from his fingers.

She tsked. “I’m not wearing any.”

A high-pitched keening noise escaped his lips. “How can you be so sexy?” he said. “It’s not goddamn fair.”

“It’s because I don’t say things like ‘stud muffin,’” she said, going in for another kiss.

After another few minutes of blissful fumbling, they reached an agreeable state of nudity. Dave was delighted to discover that Rose, while underpantsless, was wearing silk stockings and an old-fashion garter belt. He mumbled another complaint about the unfairness of her hotness against her neck and kissed her again.

Rose was full-figured, all curves and thick thighs. She considered herself very beautiful, but Dave was ethereally lovely, wiry and athletic like a distance runner. He was a _Kouros_ made flesh. She imagined that she could hear his heartbeat, feel it reverberating through their bodies. Her hands roved his body, chest to shoulders to back to buttocks, memorizing every scar and dimple. He did the same, caressing her breasts and thighs, raining kisses on her face and neck, praise falling from his lips.

He slid a knee between her thighs, and she spread her legs. Dave took a moment to line himself up with her entrance and pushed into her, burying himself to the hilt. Rose threw her head back, lips parted in a moan. She clutched at him, lacquered nails biting into his skin, leaving claw marks all down his back.

Sweat beading on his forehead, Dave grit his teeth and began to move his hips, thrusting in time with her pants. He had a good-sized cock, thick enough to hit her sensitive bud with each motion, not so large that she had any trouble accommodating him. Their bodies fit together perfectly, two pieces from the same puzzle.

Rose bit her lip and pushed back against him, rocking her hips to take more of him. He moaned, a beautiful, choked sound, and she reached up to stroke his face. “You feel so good,” she said. “Keep doing me, just like that.”

“Fuck, don’t say stuff like that,” he said. “I can’t last with you looking at me like that.”

A smile playing at her lips, Rose shut her eyes, savoring the movement of their bodies. Her hands tangled in the blanket, and after a moment, his hands found hers. Fingers interlaced, foreheads pressed together, they moved together, hips rocking, voices breaking into moans and pants.

Her breath hitched, and Dave picked up the tempo of his thrusts. Her orgasm rolled over her like thunder, and she shuddered against him, fingers and toes curling, her mouth centimeters from his. He pulled out in time to come with her, spilling onto her thigh and belly. He looked faintly abashed, put she pulled him down beside her, curving her body around his. He pressed his face into her neck and slid his arms around her, content to hold her in his arms.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

She laughed. “I don’t know,” she teased. “I _could_ be a figment of your imagination. This could be a dream. Any moment, your teeth could start falling out and you could realize you’re late for an exam you didn’t study for.”

“I hope not,” he said. “God, can you imagine? ‘Mr. Strider put your boner away, it’s time for the French final. Also, Edith Wharton is here, and she’s gonna kick your ass.’”

“Your dreams sound more interesting than mine,” she said sleepily. “All I get are signs and portents and a voice with a thousand mouths singing about the void.”

“My dreams could beat up your dreams.” He concealed a yawn. “Nobody fucks with Edith Wharton.”

Rose laughed again, but Dave was already asleep, snoring softly into her hair. “Typical,” she murmured, but she fell asleep moments later, basking in his warmth, buoyed by her afterglow. Her last thought, before she fell asleep was _this is nice._


End file.
